


Tedium

by thrvnbys



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Boys In Love, College Student Adam Parrish, Declan probs made him get one, Fluff, M/M, Meet-Cute, One Shot, Ronan Lynch Has Feelings, Ronan is has a job despite being super mega uber rich, Ronan is shy ! but also dumb :)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:48:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29229513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thrvnbys/pseuds/thrvnbys
Summary: Adam thinks it's suspicious that Ronan comes in so often with a new package to return, but Ronan thinks he's as slick as a whistle.Or, Ronan thinks the worker at the Amazon return kiosk in Kohl's is cute, so he keeps buying more packages just to return them.
Relationships: Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish
Comments: 11
Kudos: 93





	Tedium

**Author's Note:**

> This is absolutely inspired by the fact that there's a sexy amazon kiosk worker at my local Kohl's. We made eye contact for three solid seconds lol he wants me sooooooooo bad ;) /j. 
> 
> Anyways . . . um, hey y'all is there anyone else stuck on TRC even though it ended like 5 years ago :D
> 
> Also . . . this is in no way endorsing Am*zon I hate them, don't do what Ronan does and just ask the cute boy out.

Adam feels his presence before he actually hears him. He has a special sense about those kind of things, and pops his head up from the kiosk just as the looming figure grunts gracelessly (presumably to get Adam's attention). 

"Hey," Adam finally says, fixing a mild gaze on the boy in front of him. He has to be his age, maybe a little older. There's a black apron tied around his waist, and Adam spots a couple of pens and a notepad in its pocket as he gives him a perfunctory, sweeping glance. The red shirt he's wearing is both obnoxiously bright and has a tiny, portly Italian man on his left collarbone. A name tag reads: _Ronan L._ and has, what Adam guesses is, a crudely drawn penis next to the _L_. 

"Nice tag," Adam says before he can stop himself. He doesn't smile, but the blush that rises from Ronan L.'s neck makes him avert his gaze. He straightens up and gestures to the box, "Are you returning that?"

"Huh?" Ronan's voice is a lot deeper than Adam had expected and there's something about it that sounds, for a lack of better words, _rich._ After half a moment he nods, "Uh, yeah. It's LEGOs for my younger brother." 

Adam doesn't know why the boy is offering up this useless piece of information, but he grudgingly finds it endearing. "Okay," he nods, looking back up at Ronan. He's careful not to let out his Henrietta twang come out as he continues, "Do you have the return code they sent you?"

"Oh," Ronan pulls out his phone - the newest model, of course - and taps a couple digits in. As he types, his eyebrows furrow as if he's concentrating very, very hard on typing a couple numbers in, opening his Amazon app, and finding the code. "Here it is." 

Adam scans it and he looks back up to see Ronan looking at him intently. It freaks him out just a little bit, but then he starts to feel his ears getting warm. 

"Just give the machine a second to print out your receipt," Adam says. "It'll have a coupon, too. You can get 25% off select purchases." 

"Ah," Ronan says, disinterestedly. 

Adam looks at the machine, but nothing comes out. "I'm sorry," he mutters, "I must've forgotten to refill the paper. Give me one second."

"No problem." 

Normally he would feel a flash of irritation for whoever worked the last shift, but Adam is surprised to feel that he's secretly pleased that whoever it was (he's certain it's Noah - he's always forgetting something or another) had forgotten to refill the printer. This brief and mild inconvenience gives him enough time to say, "Do you work around here?" 

"Yeah," Ronan sounds a little bit surprised at the small talk. He peers behind the kiosk where Adam is kneeling to find the box of receipt rolls. "I work at the Italian place on the other side of the mall." 

"Oh," Adam says. "Are you new? I haven't seen you here before." 

"No," Ronan's lips form a small smile. "I just don't really, you know . . . shop at Kohl's?"

Immediately Adam regrets the question. Of course he doesn't shop at Kohl's. Only mothers and their twelve year old children shop at Kohl's. But, a part of him wants to defend it. Wants to say, _Actually the prices are really good. And there are some nice graphic tees. I got a nice Coca-Cola shirt from here last year, and the quality still holds_. But he says none of that. Instead, he frowns just a little, and says "Oh that makes sense." He finally grabs a roll and shoves it into the printer with a little too much force. "Okay, just give it a second to load." 

He feels like it takes years for the printer to start back up and spit out the receipt and the coupon. All the while, he feels Ronan's gaze on him. It goes everywhere, from his hair to his freckles to his neck to the graphic tee he coincidentally picked out from the men's section of Kohl's two months ago. It's not a completely unpleasant feeling, to be seen. 

"Okay," he holds out the receipt. "You're all set. Have a great day." 

"Thanks, man." Ronan takes the receipt and jams it into his pant pocket, obvious that he will never touch it ever again. It'll end up in his laundry machine and come out as wet mulch. "See you around, Adam." 

He startles at the sound of his name. He had forgotten that he, too, brandishes a name tag. It says _Adam Parrish_ in neat, stenciled letters. The thought of this stranger knowing his name feels both too intimate and strangely thrilling. 

He watches Ronan leave. 

The box of LEGOs (the Death Star) sits on top of the counter. He wonders if Ronan's little brother wasn't a fan of Star Wars, or if he had just already had a set like this one. He sort of wishes he had asked. 

* * *

He doesn't really expect to see Ronan again. Lots of people come and go at all kinds of frequencies, but there was just something about their interaction last time - perhaps that Adam had thought about it way too often - that felt final. But just as he's getting ready to grab his stuff and clock out, a familiar pair of blue eyes (Adam had decided, after a brief Google search, that the closest he could get to describing it was Pantone shade 630) caught his. It's been maybe two or three weeks since he's last come in.

"Hey," he says. 

"Hey," Ronan pauses before he says, "Adam." 

"Here to drop something off?" Adam asks. 

"Yep," he produces a package seemingly out of nowhere. It's already wrapped so Adam can't see what it is, but Ronan supplies, "It's a book." 

Adam hums thoughtfully, "Your little brother didn't like it?" 

Ronan smiles, for real this time, "Actually it's for my older brother. He reads shit like _Antigone_ and _The Iliad_ so I thought I'd get him _The Bacchae_ , but turns out he had already read it." 

"That's awful sweet of you," Adam says, his accent slipping on the _awful_. It makes him sound like one of those old southern ladies on TV, the kind that bake cakes and talk to themselves. 

Ronan blushes, "S'nothing." 

"Can I have the bar scan that comes with the return email?" 

Ronan takes his time finding the code again. As Adam reaches out to scan, Ronan pulls back almost imperceptibly and says "I came by a week ago, probably." 

"Oh?" Adam pretends to be uninterested. He wants to be coy and say, _Were you looking for me or something?_ But he keeps this thought to himself. He doesn't even know the guy's last name. It becomes increasingly clear, after Adam scans the code and Ronan shoves the phone back into his pocket, that Ronan isn't going to muster up the courage to ask what he's meant to. So Adam shrugs, "I only work the weekends in the mornings. It's the only days I don't have school, and I have nighttime shifts at a bookstore." 

Ronan nods, also pretending to be uninterested. "Busy guy." 

Adam notices that Ronan isn't wearing his uniform today. The printer spits out a receipt. "Is it your day off today?"

"Yeah. Oh, and by the way, the, um . . . the drawing on my tag wasn't mine. My coworker - his name's Kavinsky - he's always fuckin' around like that." He sounds almost apologetic. As if a crudely drawn penis would somehow offend Adam's virginal eyes or something. If it had been anyone else, Adam would have raised an eyebrow as a, _Really?_ but he doesn't because he gets the feeling that this is just how Ronan is. 

Instead, Adam replies, "Oh, I know Kavinsky. He goes to my university. I hear he's a load of trouble." 

"You go to Harvard too?" Adam is almost offended that Ronan sounds so surprised. 

"Yeah, do you?" he means it to be a little bit rude. Like, yeah, I _do_ go to Harvard. Did _you_ get accepted? But Ronan doesn't take it that way at all, and he's pleasantly surprised by the confidence in his voice when Ronan replies, "No, I don't go to school." 

Adam doesn't know what to say to this. He hands him the receipt. 

"See you around," Adam says. 

"Later," Ronan mumbles back. 

* * *

Ronan is back thrice by the end of the month. He's returned a blanket (too small, he says, for himself), a toolbox (which he mentioned, _oh so_ casually was for his super cool, super sexy sports car that he fixes up once in a while, but had been too big for storage), and a random DVD of an obscure French movie (this one didn't have an explanation). 

By the time Ronan comes back for the sixth time, Adam knows the drill. He'll make small talk with Ronan, catch him blushing, and send him along his way. He's not one to assume. He's never been one to assume. He didn't assume in the sixth grade, when Jonas Matthews had spent an entire month walking him home; or when Eric Cleaver had asked him for tutoring help in Chem Honors (later, Adam found out he had the second highest grade in the class, even without Adam's tutoring); or even when Ann Flores had asked for his number at the end of senior year. He never spent too much time thinking about it and never liked to acknowledge the little intimacies that - were he interested in things like that - had made him blush. 

He was too busy studying. And, partly (he remembered this with unease), because he was afraid that something - _anything_ \- would accidentally make itself noticeable to his father. 

So he did the right thing. For better or for worse, he ignored it. 

This thought occurs to him as he's sitting outside Kohl's, smoking during his fifteen minute break. He's half hidden in the foliage next to the store, but he has a clear view of a black BMW parking impressively fast in the parking lot. He sees a buzzcut, a split lip, and Pantone shade 630. 

Ronan pauses by the door, checking his reflection. He rubs his buzzcut. He's wearing black jeans and a comfortable-looking, non-descript grey hoodie that hangs loosely off his lean frame. He looks normal. He looks like Ross Andrews, and Brandon Teller, and Jesse Campbell. He looks nervous. 

Adam considers putting out the cigarette and calling out his name. It would be easy to get his attention, he's not too far away, and if Ronan just twisted his head a degree or two to the side he would notice Adam's faded red Coca-Cola shirt. But he looks distracted, and he doesn't see him. 

Adam lets the moment pass. Ronan's already inside. 

It takes him a record three minutes to reemerge outside, looking a bit disheartened but otherwise unscathed. 

The BMW speeds off. 

Adam crushes his cigarette beneath the heel of his sneakers. His break is over. 

* * *

The smell of pasta and garlic bread makes Adam wrinkle his nose. He's not really an Italian person - not just because it's a bit pricey, but just because he prefers Chinese takeout more than anything. 

He's half regretting coming in when a bouncy looking blond comes up to him and flashes him the prettiest smile he's ever seen. His name is Michael. 

"Hey there!" Adam recognizes the Customer Service Voice from his days as a waiter at Thalia's Grill. Michael is really wrangling for the tips, and Adam feels bad that he only has a bunch of wadded up ones and a couple tens. "What can I get started for you sir?" Did Adam sound this peppy? He couldn't have. He was always so sleepy after school, there was no way he could have had half the energy of this ecstatic little blond. 

"A table please," Adam says quietly. 

"For one?" 

"For one." 

Before he loses the courage, Adam taps gently on Michael, who is already on the move. "Excuse me, um," Adam isn't sure whether to call him sir or man or dude. "Is there a guy named Ronan working here?" 

Michael turns, curious. "Um, yeah. He's working table three." 

"He's a . . . friend of mine," Adam words carefully. "Do you think, maybe, he could take my order?" 

Michael frowns just a little, but says, "Yeah, no problem," in the same cheery tone. 

"Great, thanks, man." 

He sits down at table 7. It's a little bit sticky and the chair is wobbly, but he's read the reviews for this place. The owner, a sleazy looking guy named Neil or Noel or something, is apparently a good salesman and a good restaurant owner. 

Michael swings by for a second to drop off Adam's glass of water. It has beads of condensation running down the sides and it tastes sort of like cucumber. He's staring at it intently, seeing if he can make out the faint green sheen or if it's just funky tap water, when someone clears their voice. 

Ronan is half-smiling. 

"Hey, man," Adam says. He cringes a little on the inside. It's not nearly the kind of reunion he'd been hoping for. He sure as hell wasn't expecting any tears or dramatic monologues, but . . . Hey, man? It was weak, even for Adam. 

"What's up," Ronan says, but he says it in the way Californians do in those cop TV shows. Not to be answered, purely as a greeting. "I didn't know you liked Italian." 

"I don't," Adam says. He blushes. "I mean, I don't eat it very often. I don't mind it, though." 

Ronan raises an eyebrow, and the smile grows just barely. He grabs his notepad from his apron and swiftly pulls the pencil stuck behind his ear. Adam notices, with a smile, that the penis on his tag has been scrubbed away, now revealing just a vaguely phallic looking stripe parallel to the L. "Do you want me to read you the specials?" 

"No," Adam says. "What's the cheapest thing?" he says it without thinking. He always seems to forget how to _think_ around Ronan. Maybe he's lucky Ronan doesn't go to his school. No doubt lectures about hemoglobin and sickle cell anemia would pale in comparison to Ronan's presence. 

To Ronan's credit though, he doesn't reveal any sort of hesitance at Adam's question. "For appetizers, it'll probably be the breaded zucchini and the garlic bread. For main courses it'll be the pesto angel hair. But you don't have to worry about the tab, man. I got you covered." He says it so swiftly, so surely that Adam almost doesn't catch it. Ronan is already taking the menu from his hands, and he's jotted down something on the pad. "I'll get you the carbonara special and some garlic bread." 

"Wait -" 

Ronan raises a hand and waves him off, "Don't make me repeat myself." 

"No, it's just -" Adam stumbles over his words, feeling incredibly shy all of a sudden. "I just wanted to say, it's nice to see you again." It's been a month since they've last seen each other. 

Ronan's whole body freezes. He's looking down at Adam, an almost pained expression on his lips. Pantone 630. His long dark eyelashes flutter momentarily, as if he's been given some incredibly confusing data. The moment is undeniably awkward, the kind of awkward that would normally make Adam want to curl into his bed and sleep for fifteen hours. But he holds Adam's gaze. Ronan's Pantone 630 to Adam's Pantone 13-4410. 

"Yeah," he says after an excruciating fifteen seconds. "Yeah. I haven't seen you at the kiosk in a while." 

"I quit, actually." Adam explains. 

"Could've given a guy a warning," Ronan says it with such ease and confidence that Adam loses the meaning of the words. And then, "I'll be right back with your order." 

Michael motions toward the backdoor. He looks curious, almost a little amused. 

"Thanks, again," Adam nods. He's left a couple ones on his plate despite the free meal. Michael looks sated, and scurries off to badger some other customer with refills and bright smiles. 

The door opens with a wide swing, almost crushing the person standing a couple feet away. There's a dignified, "Fuck!" and a less dignified string of curses that follow. Strange how it sounded almost like poetry to Adam at that moment. 

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Watch the fucking -" 

"Hey, Ronan," the name sounds sweet on his tongue. Or maybe it's the complimentary strawberry candy that came with the meal. 

Ronan smiles, "Oh, hey Adam." 

There's a cigarette hanging from his fingers. "On your break?" He leans against the brick wall, imitating Ronan's relaxed posture. They're both staring straight ahead. 

"No," Ronan replies drily. 

Adam nods, a little cowed. He doesn't know why he's come back here. He just had a feeling that it was the right thing to do. "Michael said you'd be back here." 

"The little rat," Ronan rolls his eyes, but there's fondness creeping in his voice. "Did you want something? Was everything okay?" 

It's slightly disorienting to see Ronan in his - somewhat - natural habitat. He's surprisingly good at his job, despite his outward appearance and his somewhat vulgar vocabulary. There's genuine patience in his eyes when he asks kids what they want to order - answering each and every question they have with no hint of annoyance ever. He's polite with parents too, but he's always half-smiling like he's making fun of them secretly. Adam must've watched him the whole night, right up until he snuck off to the back for a smoke break. 

"Do you mind?" Adam gestures at Ronan's hand, the one that's holding the cigarette. 

Ronan raises a single eyebrow, but hands it to him without hesitation. "I didn't know you smoked." 

"Once in a while," Adam says. "It helps when I'm stressed." 

"Not a good habit."

"Pot calling the kettle black." 

"Ha, ha," Ronan grumbles. 

The drag feels nice and smooth. The mix of cigarette smoke and Ronan's woody cologne creates an intensely calming atmosphere around Adam. Why had he been nervous? He had never been so nervous when Ronan came in in the first place. After all, it was just Ronan. Who bought LEGOs for his sixteen-year-old brother, and boring classics for boring Declan. 

Ronan glances at him, taking the cigarette back. Pantone 630. 

"I suspected," Adam admits, after a second. When he said the words, a plume of smoke wrapped around his face. "That maybe you liked me."

Ronan doesn't say anything. 

"You're not very slick." 

"That wasn't really the point," Ronan rolls his eyes. 

Adam turns finally, so that his shoulder leans against the wall instead, and he's facing Ronan directly. Ronan doesn't move his body, but he turns so that they're eye-to-eye. It takes Adam a second to fully register that he was wrong about Pantone 630. At least, from this angle, in the shoddy fluorescent light of the streetlamp, Ronan's eyes aren't Pantone 630 at all. More like Pantone 637. 

"Do you mind some company?" It's a vague question, but Adam is confident that Ronan will understand. It just makes sense that he would. 

Ronan grunts, glancing at his watch. (Adam doesn't know it, but his smoke break was over two minutes ago.)

He shrugs, a slow smile growing, and throws out an eloquent, "Whatever." 

* * *

Kissing a smoker isn't at all like what it's described in those cheesy romance novels. It's not pleasant at all, actually. The "taste of cigarettes" is bitter and bacterial and not nearly as sexy as he imagined. 

It's just a minuscule, casual blip in the back of Adam's mind as Ronan's hands, which smells vaguely of gasoline and lavender soap, gently reach out to touch his cheek. 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry it's a little rushed and rough around the edges. I wanted to get to the point . . . which is that Ronan is a he/they himbo who doesn't know how to express his feelings. 
> 
> Anyways, this is unedited and it's already sort of late but I had fun writing & I hope you had fun reading :D


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